


Resistencia

by seeing_blue



Series: Resplandor [2]
Category: Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor (Video Games), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Canon Divergence, F/M, Friendship, Hispanic Character, Love, Modern Character in Middle Earth, Modern Girl in Middle Earth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:02:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28685280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seeing_blue/pseuds/seeing_blue
Summary: Far from home, ten set out on a journey, some strangers, some friends, and all now bonded through their fellowship. They understand what they must do. They understand what it means for the fate of Middle-earth and all that is good.Because this is Valeria's home, and she will protect it.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins & Original Female Character(s), Fíli (Tolkien)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Resplandor [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1462933
Comments: 27
Kudos: 93





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A year after completing Renacida, enjoy the second part of Valeria's story.

The Company of Thorin Oakenshield stopped for a quick rest and lunch underneath the shade of clustered aspens. Sunlight dappled through their leaves and left bright, gold medallions upon the green grass. A calm stream sang nearby, and I feared that soon I would not be seeing much of its like on our journey ahead. 

The dwarves ventured to the stream to wash up and refresh their parched throats. I followed behind; all of a sudden, a great commotion had the dwarves up in arms. To my utter surprise, out from the bank on the other side of the stream, between a group of currant bushes, dashed a human woman! Like a startled deer, she was caught between standing completely still and running for her life.

I noticed the grey, round stone in her hand only as she lifted it in the air: a silent threat to the Company. In the moments before chaos, I noted the queer fashion of her appearance. The young woman (for she had to be young, though I did not entirely trust my judgement when it came to ages of the Big Folk) wore an odd-colored blouse made of strange fabric, loose and fitting all at once. It came down to her wrists. Her hose was black but sturdy, and it had a peculiar gloss that I had never seen before. The woman herself was brown-skinned and black-haired. Her eyes darted about, terrified but defiant with that stone still held aloft, and perhaps her behavior was the queerest thing of all.

I do not remember what questions were asked to the woman, but they must have been along the lines of, “What are you doing? Why are you hiding? Have you come to spy on us?” For you must remember that the dwarves were suspicious of a stranger’s intent in general—and the nature of their quest making them more so. The woman’s abrupt appearance only heightened their mistrust.

Though I cannot recall the exact questions, I do distinctly remember what occurred right after. Dwalin attempted to cross the little stream between them. He had gotten himself in quite the huff when the woman would not answer his questions. Just as he had a foot on each bank, the woman hurled the rock at him with dastardly precision. A mighty crack burst through the air! Dwalin fell into the bank, for the stone had connected soundly against his great big head (But do not worry for his health; dwarves have notoriously hard heads, and Dwalin in particular).

The woman, having thrown the stone, resorted to running. She leapt into the woods, but Kili, Fili, and Thorin himself chased after. Even Dwalin, who quickly removed himself from the shallow stream, joined in the pursuit, though as he was sopping he was much slower.

As I was not there when the woman was caught, I cannot describe the exchange, but I can tell you that there was plenty of cursing and shouting from both the dwarves and the woman. Lunch forgotten, the rest of the Company waited for five minutes until they saw Thorin, Fili, Kili, and Dwalin return in rather dour moods. Much to my shock, I saw Gandalf with them, and beside him the woman. Later, I found that the wizard had snuck around to cut off the woman should she flee, which she had.

And if it were not for the grey wizard, the woman would have most certainly evaded the dwarves’ grasp. She proved to be quick, and it certainly helped that her legs were longer than that of the dwarves. But her poor chest fluttered in fright, and the sight of the dwarves, wizard, and myself did not ease her.

The woman’s wrists were not bound, as Gandalf said she was no spy to the Company or to anyone. It would be very rude to argue against a wizard in this situation, and I believe that the dwarves did not really wish to tie ropes around her, as their kind has much respect for womankind and would not want to be seen acting opposite of their beliefs.

After a quiet conversation between Gandalf and Thorin about what to do with the woman, the dwarf came away looking unhappier. I could not discern the expression of the wizard. Thorin, however, announced that we would be taking the woman with us. If anything, she could not give information on their whereabouts if she traveled in the Company. It would also be dishonorable if they left a woman abandoned in the wild.

A tense lunch ensued. Gandalf sat aside with the woman, and though I heard them speaking, I did not make out what they said. The dwarves had their own discussions on the matter, and few of them pleasant. Though, they did find the red welt on Dwalin’s head rather amusing.

I, being the most unfortunate in the Company, was informed that the woman would be sharing a pony with me, as I was the smallest. I spoke my reluctance, but the Company would not hear any of it. We then prepared to leave. The woman trailed over to my pony, her own unwillingness prominent.

From the regard the woman gave me, I was certain that she had never seen a hobbit before. I, too, had not seen many humans besides the ones who dwelled in Bree (which we hobbits know to avoid with the utmost urgency unless absolutely necessary), and never had I seen a human woman of this stature and race. Although her dark brown eyes and visible frown silently spoke of a controlled bewilderment, she held no disdain for me personally.

A hobbit should not be improper, no matter where he may be. I gave the woman a little bow and, in spite of my ruddy appearance from days of travel, I promptly held out a hand. A moment passed before she grasped it. Her palms were calloused.

“Bilbo Baggins,” I said. “At your service. And…your name?”

My eyes might have deceived me, but the beginnings of a smile twitched the corner of the woman’s lip.

“Valeria.”

An excerpt from There and Back Again, Chapter Two, “The Big Woman”

What do you think, my dear Valeria? Please, do be honest.

Your Friend,  
Bilbo

Baggins,

It is spectacular, and I remember how cute and frazzled you looked when you introduced yourself. Ha! Remember how funny it was when you realized we had to sit all pressed together on that horse? Your little pointy ears were so reddddddd jajajajaja.

And you DO remember the cursing that went down when I got caught, right? You should throw that in. I distinctly remember Dwalin calling me a “foul, dishonorable bitch.” Then I called him a “fucking piece of shit.” If you can’t conjure up the exact phrasing, you have your creative license. Just think of what I’d say in a situation like that! If you do have trouble, though, I am more than willing to give you a few lines.

Please, please, PLEASE describe how nice my boobs were. I’m begging you. Just do it. Please.

Yeah, and hey, change the title of your chapter. “The Big Woman?” What the fuck, Bilbo? Think of something better! Maybe, “The Big-breasted Woman.” But then you’d have to write in a description of my boobs, and you’re prone to fainting when it comes to stuff like that. Or maybe change it to, “How I Met My Best Friend Forever, More Commonly Known as BFF, Who Is a Total Badass.”

Love, V

My dear Valeria,

I think not on two of your three suggestions.

But for the title, perhaps I shall try, “A Conundrum of a Woman Who Disrupted the Lives of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield and Myself.” It is much more fitting—and quite honest.

Your Friend,  
Bilbo

Baggins,

You should be thankful I “disrupted” your lives? Why don’t you save something like that for the foreword and shower me with the praise I deserve?

For the chapter, how about, “Meeting the Woman Who Will Save My Life, the Lives of the Company, and the Line of Durin in the Most Fashionable Manner with Her Impeccable Aim.”

Much more suitable.

Love, V

My dear Valeria,

Your humility knows no bounds.

After much consideration, I have come up with a chapter title that might please you and is not longer than the chapter itself.

It shall simply be, “My Friend Valeria.”

Tell me what you think.

Your Friend,  
Bilbo

Baggins,

I think that title will work just fine.

Love, V


	2. A Wintry Horizon

It began with a funeral.

Erebor had waited for the news of King Bain’s passing for weeks, and so when the message finally came by raven from the neighboring kingdom in the early fall, a hollow breath released from the mountain. It did not make the grief any better, but it did allow for the grief to begin.

Braziers and torches lined the open windows, halls, and staircases, turning the Lonely Mountain to a resolute beacon that mourned the death of a good man and a just king. Near the summit of the mountain, a lone pyre burned, and it burned so brightly that it broke though the veil of fog.

My own veil, black and sheer, clung to my face as I laid a small bouquet of dried lavender in the crook of Bain’s arm. It could not be fresh because of the season, but its fragrance lingered. Perhaps, I thought, that he could give them to Sigrid and Tilda when he saw them again. They both loved lavender. Tilda had it woven in her honey hair when she was married, and Sigrid had embroidered lavender in the hems of her skirts, shawls, cuffs, and handkerchiefs.

The first baby she lost was wrapped in white linen with lavender stitched in the corner.

The daughters’ progenies stood on the other side of the boat that Bain rested in, nodding and silently thanking all who came to pay their respects to the King of Dale. Brand solemnly took up his place at the center of his kin. He did not yet wear his father’s crown.

The procession lasted the entire day. Bain was well-loved. The people of Dale, the dwarves of Erebor and the Iron Hills, the elves of Mirkwood, and the nearest tribes of Easterlings attended. When evening fell, nations gathered upon the rocky shore of the Long Lake to bid the king a final farewell. Dusk bled from the hills in the East. A wintry wind prophesying the season ahead crept across the lake water and bit at our skin.

Fili held my cold hand. He, too, donned all black, his ornamental armor a dark iron. The crown he wore, the same crown on our wedding day, beset his head. Mine had been placed over the shroud I wore. Tears, old, old tears that I had cried before and would cry in the life ahead, were cooled by the breeze.

Bain’s grandchildren pushed his boat onto the rippling lake. Brand took the bow of his grandfather, lit an arrow, and shot it into the boat. His family members, descendants from Bard the Bowman, followed. Fire lit the dimming sky. Upon the Long Lake, another pyre began to burn. It shone like the pyre of Bain’s father before him, yet Bain had been the one to launch the fiery arrow, weeping like his own son now did.

I stood upon this shore many times, shrouded and mourning. I would stand on it many times more.

A thrush sang in the sinking dark.

Catalina leaned into me, her own veiled head resting against my shoulder. I embraced her without pause, and together we watched another great king of the North make the final passage to the hall of his fathers.

-

We drank to King Bain’s memory in the palace. It sheltered us from the cold. The warmth brought back smiles, as bittersweet as they were, and the flowing food and spirits softened the sting. Catalina, Dis, and I had our veils pulled back, as did the other dams scattered throughout the feast. Frerin wandered off to speak with Brand. They had been close friends since boyhood, and although Brand was now grayed while Frerin still remained in his youthful dwarven years, their bond never wavered.

Death often brought back friendly faces, however, and I found myself tightly embracing Tahir.

“Ay, it’s been too long,” she spoke fondly. Her face then twisted, and I fought to mirror the expression. “Bain was such a good boy. He made his father proud.”

“He did.” We looked to Brand and Frerin, who sequestered themselves along the far edge of the wall. “Rinny is taking it harder than he’s letting on. Bain taught him a lot. That boy spent half his childhood growing up in this place. I think he’s coming to terms that this will happen again, and there’s nothing he can do to prevent it.”

“That is the burden of life,” Tahir said. Ruefully, she gestured at the fine wrinkles gathered in the corners of her eyes. “Do you see what life is finally doing to me? It’s unfair! I wanted to die like an elf, pristine and only wrinkled on the inside.”

“What does Avrien think of it?”

Deadpan, Tahir said, “He calls them ‘tracks of memory,’ the bastard.” Her French accent laid in thick on the last bit. I laughed. It felt good to laugh. “This is what awaits you, Val! Be warned.”

Catalina, seeing Tahir, came up and hugged her. _“_ Hey, Tía.”

Tahir held Catalina for a long time, full of love. She cupped my daughter’s face in her hands, which also had wrinkles forming on them. “You get more beautiful every time I see you, just like your mother. How are you?”

“I’m well.”

“And your sister? Where is she?”

“Pfft, Sol is off in Lothlorien, staring at a single leaf for three days solid. You know how she is.”

“She couldn’t make it back in time,” I explained while Tahir chuckled at Cat’s response. “But she’s on her way. If you stay long enough, she might be able to see you.”

“I wish I could,” Tahir sighed, “but I fear I cannot. Though this funeral brings despair, it also brings an opportunity to discuss concerning matters.”

“Like what?” I asked the question as if I did not understand the implications of Tahir’s words.

She drew closer to Cat and me. “Mordor grows quiet. The factions no longer war with each other.”

“And Talion?”

Tahir’s mouth drew into a grim line. “I have not heard from him in quite some time.”

It had been eight years since Minas Ithil fell, and eight years since Talion and Celebrimbor set out to give Middle-earth time to prepare for what awaited when their wills finally bent to the oppressive dark. They had consigned themselves to their fate if it meant the West could bask in the light for just a little longer.

If I thought hard enough, I could conjure the sulfuric stench of Mordor when Tahir and I traveled into the blighted land to meet the wraith. But it was not all terrible; green still grew in the hills, and packs of Caragor taught their young how to hunt and survive in the tall blades.

I doubted that any green remained. If it did, it would soon vanish.

Mildly pained, Tahir gazed at Brand from across the hall. “Dale’s new king will need to be involved in the talks. He must prepare for what lies in the coming years.”

After a sigh, I said, “Very well. But can it wait until tomorrow? I don’t want to be talking of more death right now.”

Tahir nodded. “Of course.”

Cat listened to our conversation, taking in the bits of information and warning. Her seriousness pulled the exact same features on her face as it did her brother’s. She pretended to look like Frerin so much order to tease him that it eventually became part of her. They could have been twins, anyway.

“I’ll tell Thorin and persuade Thranduil that he’ll be doing us a favor if he came,” I said, glancing over at the elf king. He had always been in a better mood whenever Legolas returned to Mirkwood, but his son left over six months ago, so I was mildly surprised that he even decided to come to the funeral, let alone the feast afterward. He looked as haughty and resigned as ever, of course. Ever since the battle over sixty years ago, though, Thranduil made the “mistake” (his words, not mine) of getting close to mortals.

He had adored Bain. He had adored Sigrid and Tilda, too, but Sigrid the most. She learned how to speak to the animals. She knew when to be quiet and listen, and when to talk and act. She loved lavender, and now the flowers bloomed earlier in Mirkwood and lived longer than others.

I loved her. I loved Bain. I loved Tilda. Still do. Love did not fade, much like grief.

Some of the humans started up a somber song to honor their late king, and the dwarves joined in. 

Thranduil caught me staring at him. He lifted up his goblet of wine in a toast. It was a toast of acknowledgement that we had heard this song sung many times, that this was the burden of our lives.

I excused myself from Tahir and Cat and walked over to him. The elf king made himself particularly bored, but he did it to mask his sadness. His personal guards let me slip past them without question.

“Come to amuse me?” Thranduil inquired. “This wine is dull, and the singing even duller.”

“Uh, I think that wine is from your people.” I sat in the chair next to him and smoothed the black fabric of my skirt. My toes curled within my boots from being cold. Nothing could be done about my fingers.

“Then I have matters to attend to when I return.”

Underneath the thrum of the song carrying through the hall, I said to Thranduil, “I would be very grateful if you came to the mountain tomorrow. Say, around noon? Chief Tahir has brought news from the East and the South that I think you should be privy to.”

“I am privy to news of both directions on a regular occurrence. I do not need to be inside that mountain for a punishable amount of time.”

“Then you would know what stirs. Its direction is changing.”

Thranduil sipped at his drink and remained silent. I watched Thorin and Fili sing with everyone else. Like us, Thorin only wore his crown for ceremonies and funerals. His and Fili’s ornamental armor were similar in style. Kili, who stood with his wife and mother a short way off, also wore like armor and fabric. The twins huddled behind their parents. Visi and Astordil would have been much naughtier had their grandmother not been close to them.

“We’ve had our peace,” I spoke. “And it has been good. We will have it for…a decade longer, perhaps. Most likely less.”

“And then?”

“Then we fight to bring that peace back.”

“Mm, yes. How very pragmatic. Vague, as well, meaning that the fight will not be very peaceful. Or am I simply too cynical?” Thranduil’s gaze annoyingly smacked at the side of my skull. I didn’t meet his ancient eyes out of pure spite.

“Cynical, obviously. That’s why your wine tastes so bad. But will you come?”

He sighed. “I do not think my presence would be necessary. If it pleases you, I could simply receive a letter stating all that was spoken. You did that, once. I quite enjoyed it.”

Yeah. I did that. _Forty-five years ago._ Because I was still recovering from giving birth to Catalina and couldn’t badger Thranduil enough to come to a council meeting, I sent a pissy letter telling him on all the concerns and decisions he missed droning on about. The asshole never let it go.

“Should I take this linen napkin on the table and write a pleading letter out to you now? Since it made you so happy.”

“Mm, no. The ink will simply bleed into the cloth.”

“Then talking will have to do. We need your input if we’re to start fortifying our reserves, our armies, our lands, and our economies this early.”

Thranduil “considered” the proposition. I waited for him to reply and picked at a bowl of dried figs on the table. The first song had ended, and another began, this one much more upbeat and celebratory of life. Fili moved to Brand—who had rejoined the feast—patted him on the back, and pushed a mug of ale in his hand. When Brand took a sip, he wound up coughing and sputtering. Fili and Frerin laughed uproariously at the sight; it never, _ever_ ceased to amuse dwarves to watch a person unsuspectingly take a drink of their alcohol. Brand wouldn’t have fallen for it, but his distracted mind led to his downfall.

Fili did it not to be mean, but to laugh and have humor. Just as Bain had been part of raising Frerin, Fili had been part of raising Brand. The ache in Brand’s spirit lessened at the sight of my husband, and he laughed with them. When he took another, stronger drink and did not falter, Frerin and Fili clapped him on the back. Fili did not miss me sitting next to the elven king, but if he was curious, he kept it to himself and didn’t intrude.

“Very well,” Thranduil said dismissively. “It has been too long since I enjoyed the musty dragon-scent of the mountain. I shall be in attendance.”

“Yay,” I deadpanned.

“And Brand? Will he be there? Simply two days after his father’s death, the man must begin to prepare for darkness. Quite the transition.”

“I haven’t informed him yet, but I will. Bain taught him well; he understands his duties.”

Duty. I said that word more and more these days. I could only be thankful that the other leaders in our land adhered to it. Farther in the West, they did not.

When Minas Ithil fell, they did not.

“And where is your golden-haired child? The little one?” Thranduil inquired. “Hiding in a corner reading a book?”

“Solana? Ah, no, but if she were here, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s exactly what she did.” I popped another fig slice in my mouth. “Lady Galadriel asked if she could teach Sol for a few months. You know, because…” I waggled the fingers on my left hand. Thranduil hummed. “She was already planning her return when we sent word of Bain’s ill health. Even though she left a few days early, it still wasn’t enough for her to make it back in time. But she’ll be here in, oh, another week or two? Depends on how fast her guard will push her—or how fast she’ll push the guard.”

“Which route will they take?”

“They’ll follow the Anduin, skirt around Gladden Fields, and find their way to the Old Forest Road. Haradrim have been particularly persistent in the more southernmost areas of Rhovanion, so they’re avoiding that direction.” I quirked my brows. “Undoubtedly something we’ll also talk about tomorrow.”

“Chief Tahir has always had trouble with them. Their unruliness ebbs and flows like that lake they call the sea.”

The Avari named it the Sea of Rhûn because they had not seen such a vast body of water except for the very shores they departed from when the rest of their kin decided to cross it. Of course, Thranduil knew this, but he did not miss any opportunity to throw an insult. I didn’t mention how he refused to look upon the Sea of Rhûn when we once traveled near it during a diplomatic campaign. It would have only made him long even more for the true sea.

Thranduil considered himself so very different from the lord and lady elves. He would not admit his same, elven melancholy to return to the place his people first came from.

At the mention of Solana, I found my other two children once more. They were both able to laugh during such an unhappy time, and it eased my aging heart.

Would they be able to continue laughing when this growing darkness came upon us? Upon them?

“How do you do it?” I found myself quietly asking Thranduil. I finally looked to him and was met with an ethereal, unyielding gaze. “How do you prepare your children for war?”

“You cannot,” Thranduil replied. “No matter how fortified your kingdom may be, no matter how skilled your armies are, no matter how you outsmart the enemy, war will still come to your children. It will change them, and there is absolutely nothing you can do.”

I held back a sigh. Maybe tears. It’d been a long day, and it would be an even longer day tomorrow. “You could have said something nicer. Made me feel better.”

“Being dishonest would betray my character.”

“Yeah, so would not being a dick.” But I smiled when I shot back, and Thranduil simply poured another cup of wine. He offered it to me, and I took it.

“Anything that I say will have already gone through your mind tenfold.” I took a drink while Thranduil spoke as if it would do something to take my mind off the subject. “I am sure you have imagined them dead on the battlefield, the light that has been in their eyes since birth, gone. I am sure that you have had nightmares of losing them to bow and blade. You wish to be their armor, but even you are not impenetrable.

“And just as you cannot prepare them for war, you cannot prepare yourself for their deaths.”

-

Brand—King Brand, as it would be once the month of mourning was over—took one of the trolleys to the Lonely Mountain the next day. Since so many citizens traded and worked in both cities, a more efficient traveling system was put in place. Three lines ran from the Lonely Mountain to Dale. Within the mountain, smaller trolleys snaked through levels and wings of the cavernous kingdom. Nine years ago, Dale built their own system, and they expanded the railway two years ago.

Mirkwood refused any such method of transportation.

Industrialization in dwarven culture was happening without me already. I thought that I could at least throw trains in there to make life easier. The Lonely Mountain had an excess of sun crystals used for lighting and ornamental decoration. They had been hanged about the mountain during my wedding, but they didn’t have much purpose beyond occasion; if a weed were a rock, it’d be them. We funded research into the use of the sunlight stored within the crystals being used to fuel the trolleys. The method worked, and we now had safe, renewable energy from easily-grown minerals.

Fili and I sat down on a cushioned bench in one of the mountain’s trolleys to attend the meeting. We had our own private carriage, and today we took up the one with a table between us so he could continue going over the reports he had laid out before him at the breakfast table.

I took the opportunity to simply watch him, relaxed in the privacy of the carriage, an elbow propped up on the windowsill and cheek rested on my knuckles. His beard had grown out in full, but he kept it more trimmed like Thorin, Kili, and the younger generation of dwarves did. Today, he pulled his hair back halfway and secured it in a simple bun. The silver clasp that matched my own nestled just below his ear. Near Fili’s temples, gray mingled with the gold.

“You’re getting old,” I smirked. Fili glanced wryly at me before returning to the reports.

“Bah, you were plucking silver threads from my head before they even turned that color. I think you were just mistaking yours for mine. Planted them on my pillow and the like. Now look at you—smug as a cat. Did I say anything when your hair began to steel?”

“Yes.”

“I did not,” Fili sniffed, and my smirk widened. I stretched my leg out enough to tap my foot against his. The carriage rhythmically glided across its tracks, sounding like a stone-and-metal heartbeat. “But I fear that I have not told you how beautiful you look today, and for that I apologize. You’re breathtaking.” Fili settled against the back of the seat. His mirthful gaze tinged with sadness. “I do like seeing you happier, amrâlimê, though I know your heart aches. I would carry your weariness for you if I could.”

“I know,” I said. I laid a palm out on the table, fingers beckoning, and Fili laid his hand atop mine. His calloused thumb traced the outline of the droplet. “I wish I could do it for you, too.”

“How are Rinny and Cat?”

“Sad, but I think we’ll all feel better when our girlie gets home.”

“Ai, I told you to never send her away again after she returned from Tahir’s settlement. And what did you go and do?”

“Sent her away again,” I said drolly, “because, of course, I have complete control over our daughter’s life.”

“Aye, you do!”

My foot kicked Fili. He made a pained sound. “And now you’re intent on silencing my voice on the matter!”

“Stop,” I laughed.

“Should she return and speak to trees more than her parents, the elven kind will never let us hear the end of it. Neither will Thorin. Neither will anybody! Oh, and Cat will tease her mercilessly, too.”

“Um, I don’t know if you remember, but Sol’s been speaking to foliage way before she ever went to Lothlorien. As well as rocks. The air. The water.”

Fondness filled my husband’s eyes. “Aye, she’s always been special, hasn’t she?”

Though I didn’t voice my complaints like Fili about our daughter’s absence, I worried as well. I did not want Solana growing distant between us because of her affinity for the arcane. She was still a child. She needed to be close to home and raised here in the mountain.

Fili had a point about her being away for too long. I would ask her to remain here for the winter. I missed her. We all did.

Frerin and Cat waited for our arrival. When the trolley came to a stop and we stepped out, Cat immediately said, “Frerin stunk up the trolley on our way here. If he farts again, I swear it’ll turn the entire mountain rancid.”

“Have you gone poop?” I asked Frerin.

“Why must you _always_ ask me that question whenever Cat tattles on me? I’m fine! So are my bowels! They run as smoothly as the pipes in the mountain.”

“Tell that to the poor trolley the transportation department will have to decommission because of the smell,” Cat murmured. “Better get rid of whatever’s festering inside your gut before the meeting. No, wait—hold it all in until King Thranduil arrives. I want to see his royal majesty crack.”

“I would _never_ try to insult your future father like that—”

Cat grappled Frerin’s waist and slammed him into the wall. His fingers dug into her done-up hair to mess up her pretty bun, causing her to screech.

“Mahal, unbelievable!” Fili groaned. “Bickering, of all days!”

Cat punched her brother hard in the stomach to get him to release her hair. He relinquished but attempted to put her in a headlock. Cat screamed again and managed to wrap her arm around Frerin’s leg to trip him up. He yelped as he got thrown off-balance.

Before they could both go down, however, Thorin strode into the hallway behind us. “What is the meaning of this childish behavior?” he inquired, not unkindly, but stonily enough to have both Cat and Frerin whipping upright to attention.

“Grand—Grandfather,” Cat said. She brushed a curl from her face. “Hello. Good morning.”

Frerin bowed a little. “Good morning, Grandfather.”

“Your children are unruly,” Thorin remarked to Fili and me. He walked ahead. Dwalin and Balin followed behind, both brazenly smirking. “If they are act on their feral instincts, teach them to do it in a less public space where every dwarf in the mountain can see.”

Embarrassed that they got caught by Thorin, Cat and Frerin straightened themselves and fell back beside Fili and me. I helped Cat fix her hair while we walked. While Fili gave Frerin a quiet admonishment, Cat bitingly muttered, “I hate him so much.”

“I know, I know,” I consoled.

“And I do not have _anything_ to do with…”

“I know, yes.”

Cat and Frerin’s bouts frustrated Fili to no end, but they were reminiscent of his and Kili’s own brawls, which still occasionally happened when they couldn’t agree on a certain detail of a memory or something of the sort. I learned not to worry about the fights; like most dwarven family rough-ups, they never lasted long or left any dislike. Cat always said she hated Frerin after one, and Frerin always said Cat overreacted, but they’d be joined at the hip again soon enough.

They never fought with Solana around.

Pleasantries were brief when all attendees gathered around the large stone table. Light from the sun crystals expertly placed in braziers for the best effect illuminated the room, and a low fire kept the cold at bay. Thorin sat in the most elaborate chair with Fili on the right and Dis on the left of him. I sat next to Fili, and my children attended beside me. The rest of the seating arrangement was up for grabs, but Thranduil preferred the seat nearest to the balcony so he could stare at the view when he was bored. Brand tended to sit next to Frerin. Tauriel would gravitate toward Legolas when he could come, but since he wasn’t present, she and Kili sat beside Balin and Dwalin. Tahir and Avrien took up place beside Dis.

With everyone present, Thorin stood to address us all. A grim, ready weight settled in the room, and we had no choice but to face it.

“Darkness crawls out from the pits of Mordor to try and claim the light,” he spoke. His deep blue eyes swept over those in attendance. Thorin’s black beard and hair had turned gray many years ago, but it only gave him a kinglier appearance. His wrinkles were etched like carving in stone, not to create a semblance of frailty, but immovability. He wore shades of black like the rest of us in mourning. The stoic, iron-wrought band around his head set him apart as King of Erebor.

Thorin’s voice was as unshakable as the Lonely Mountain when he then said, “We must prepare to cast it out.”


	3. The Gondorian Brothers

Boromir, Son of Denethor, happened upon a half-scrolled piece of parchment that lay upon his father’s table in his private study. The exposed sigil at the bottom of the parchment caught his curiosity. He picked it up and unfurled the scroll.

To his father, he asked, “When was this message delivered?”

The steward glanced at the parchment Boromir held, soured, and dismissively waved. “Yesterday morning. Heed it not. It is the ranting of a mad witch-woman who the dwarves of Erebor let control their kingdom.”

“A witch-woman? She must be of great importance to have a message delivered directly to you, Father. Have you read it?”

He snorted derisively. “Faramir broke the seal in his childish folly. He recognized the seal of the Lonely Mountain; he is enamored by tales of the North, much of which are exaggerated. It is the wizard that has filled his head with foolish tales. If Faramir was not so ignorant of the world, he would behold that there is nothing in that barbarous land but witchcraft, dark sorcery, and machinations that intend to take control of the West.”

Boromir held his tongue. He knew little of the North and less of the dwarves and Northmen who inhabited the land. They had dealings with the Eastern people, however, and that alone pitted his father against them.

Father did not explicitly tell Boromir to put the parchment down, so he warily read its contents, prepared to thrust the letter into the fire before it could cast a vile spell on him.

_Denethor the II, Steward of Gondor,_

_I write to inform you of the death of King Bain of Dale, Son of Bard. His eldest son, Brand, now rules. Upon the death of the beloved king, a convergence of the East-North Alliance commenced to discuss the growing darkness in Mordor._

_As your reports may have shown, Mordor is quiet while unrest births in the surrounding areas. The land of Harad becomes emboldened, and we have acquired the knowledge that Mordor and Harad have forged an allyship. A wicked gaze falls upon Middle-earth, Steward, and soon, the Great Eye will set its foul sight on Gondor._

_You did not heed our warning when Minas Ithil came under siege. Now Minas Morgul, it is a festering seat of evil, and the power that accumulates in it grows stronger by the day, the month, the year. I beg of you, prepare your armies and stores and people. Fortify your land. There is still time before shadows sicken this world. Do not allow Minas Tirith the same fate as Minas Ithil._

_Should you need aid in this coming war, call upon the Alliance. We shall heed it._

_Regards,  
Princess Valeria of Erebor_

“Father,” Boromir said slowly, “why does this princess in the North speak of Minas Ithil?”

“Bah!” Father shook his head. “A feeble attempt to goad Gondor into defending a city already lost. No doubt their knowledge came from collusion with the dark forces in Mordor.”

Boromir recalled the fall of Minas Ithil. It was a great loss, and many people fled the city to Minas Tirith with empty eyes and bloodied hands. He had been but a boy and Faramir a child. Mother had passed by then. Would she have spoken in favor of defending Minas Ithil? Or would she have made the sacrifice as Father had?

“And what does Faramir think of this letter?” The question steered Boromir into troubling territory, this much he knew.

Father lifted his head from the reports in front of him to glower at Boromir, who took it bluntly.

“That _boy_ will walk straight into his death for tarrying with notions of alliances and friendships. This great kingdom has no need for uncultured, uncivilized lands in the North. Now burn that letter! Lest you incur more of my anger from this pointless discussion.”

Boromir did as his father asked. He watched the parchment curl and singe. Ink became embers, and by the time a chambermaid swept out the hearth, the message would be nothing more than cold ash.

They spoke on matters of the kingdom, of soldier movements and scout reports. Boromir was fond of such talks; he was well-versed in these topics. Father regarded his confidence as a soldier of Gondor with pride. He could be a difficult man, so receiving his good graces raised Boromir’s spirits and swelled his heart.

Faramir would have no such pride given to him.

And thus, as Boromir left Father’s study, the emotion inevitably became tainted.

It did not take long to find Faramir. His younger brother dwelled in the musty halls of the library more than his own bedroom, and he had memorized its knowledge in his mind as much as Boromir memorized the weight of the blade.

“Ah, Brother,” Faramir smiled when Boromir entreated into the nook. Sunlight draped through the high window Faramir leaned against, turning strands of his auburn hair gold. “What is the meaning of this visit? Is there an intruder in the library? A tourney? I must tell you, though, that whoever told you this was lying.”

“Humorous as always,” Boromir replied dryly.

“I have few to entertain but myself, which causes my wit to constantly sharpen.”

“Or dull.”

“A debate for the ages.” Faramir smiled mirthfully, happy to see his brother. He gestured for Boromir to sit. “So, on what great matter do I owe this visit?”

Boromir settled, and a pensive expression overcame his face. “Faramir, I…came to inquire upon the kingdoms on the edge of civilization. The East-North Alliance, they call themselves. I read the letter sent to father by a princess of Erebor concerning Mordor and the threat it poses to our land and people.”

Faramir tensed almost excitedly. “You read that letter? What did you think?”

“Father thought it was a waste of time and an affront to Gondor. He bade me burn the letter, as this princess is a dark sorceress with ties to the very enemy that she warns us about.”

“Lady Valeria of Erebor is _not_ a sorceress like father proclaims,” Faramir said with much more vehemence than Boromir expected. “Do you know not what she has done? The lives she has saved? The—the innovation, the progress, nearly all of it has been helmed by her!”

Boromir held his hands up placatingly. “Calm yourself, Faramir,” he said with a light laugh, although it did little to hide his surprise from Faramir’s reaction. “You speak on her behalf, then?”

“I attempt to,” Faramir said sourly. “But Father does not care to listen to me. He claims Gandalf the Wizard’s tales make me ignorant of reality. _Father’s_ reality.”

From the look on Boromir’s face confirming that Father had said the exact same thing to the elder brother, Faramir sighed. “Though it is true that I take counsel from the wizard, I do not allow my head to be filled with fancies, as Father puts it. I simply wish to create a better world for the people of Gondor. The Lady Valeria wishes for it as well.”

“Or does she wish for her kingdom to swallow Gondor up and make it better akin to their likeness?” Boromir asked warily.

Faramir shook his head. “No, Erebor—or Dale or Mirkwood, for that—has no interest in conquering.”

“And how are you so sure?”

Faramir regarded Boromir for a few moments, considering something veiled from Boromir’s knowledge. Then the younger brother’s eyes lit up somewhat mischievously, and he stood. “Come, follow me to my quarters. I have something to show you.”

“Oh? And what shall that be?” Boromir said with humor in his tone while he joined Faramir.

“I cannot speak it out here. We may be overheard.”

Boromir looked about the desolate library. “Faramir,” he stated, “I think the last person to regularly visit this library like yourself died. Right over there, I believe. Five years ago.” He pointed to a random nook. “I think all will be well.”

Faramir glowered facetiously at his brother. “Perhaps you should sharpen your own wit like you do your sword.”

“Grind a whetstone to my head?”

“Mm. I like that idea, although the whetstone would crack against the hardness of your skull.”

They shared a good-natured laugh and turned to topics that came with ease in conversation. When they reached Faramir’s chambers, Boromir watched his brother pull out sheaves of parchment protected by bound, red-dyed leather from his orderly shelf. He set them on the table and untied the leather string, then pulled back the front cover.

“I have written to Princess Valeria many times. Gandalf the Grey first suggested I do so some years back.” A small smile flitted across Faramir’s mouth. “She has always responded.”

“Really.” Boromir lifted a page. It was dated less than a fortnight ago. “And how have I not known this?”

“You do not need to be concerned with whom I write to, particularly when the subjects are not of extreme importance. From the letters, I have found her to be kind and considerate. Strong. She loves her kingdom, and she cares a great deal about Middle-earth.”

“And…are you enamored?” Boromir prodded with a raised eyebrow.

Faramir scoffed. “No. I consider her to be a…motherly figure if anything.” Some shyness came into his demeanor, but he did not seem truly ashamed of it.

The teasing in Boromir’s tone relaxed. He nodded once. “I see.”

Turning his attention to the letter, Boromir read the contents written in Princess Valeria’s hand.

_Faramir,_

_I am glad you were able to witness the comet passing through the sky. The elves call it Egole en Elbereth in Sindarin. Needle of the Star-queen. Though, I am sure you did not need any translating on my part. Your Sindarin is coming quite nicely! Have you been practicing Quenya? If you need more transcripts in the older language, please let me know. I can bother the elf-king in Mirkwood for some. If you ever find yourself among elves and speak Quenya, they will surely be impressed—even if they have a difficult time understanding you. It is an old language, after all, that many do not speak unless specifically taught it._

_The comet will not come again until you and I are long gone. How wonderful that we get to live to see such a celestial moment. There are many moments like that in our lives, and I hope you pause every once in a while to recognize them, to be grateful for them. Our mortal lives can still be filled with beauty even amidst grief and gray._

_To answer your question about the make of the comet, put simply, it is a cold rock that hurtles at amazing speeds through the space in between the stars. Even though it looks very small, it is actually quite big. The tail trailing behind it, the “needle,” is a release of dust across the sky. I shall not confuse you with the science behind it, but think of a comet being lightly pulled by Middle-earth at all times, so even if it strays very far away, it eventually comes back before disappearing again for another cycle._

_Yes, yes, it sounds very “witch-like,” but I am sure that has long stopped bothering you because of your frequent questions of the nature—all of which I am happy to answer as best I can. The only power you shall gain from this knowledge is the power of intellect. But this, Faramir, is an incredibly useful skill that will serve you well._

_How are your dreams? Have they been peaceful? Or have they troubled you? I dreamed that my sword had suddenly turned into a long loaf of bread. Not very deep—or is it? Alas, some answers are beyond us._

_Solana returned to Erebor, which has sent the mountain into excitement. Her arrival is a balm to the grief that the North has felt in past weeks due to the death of King Bain. She is currently sitting across from me insisting that she braid Catalina’s hair in a Lothlorien style to impress the elf prince of Mirkwood._

_I have mixed feelings about the implications of what Solana has suggested._

_Speaking of siblings, how is your brother? Has he returned with his scouting party? I wish him well._

_Sunflower also sends her regards, and when you do finally get to meet her, she still intends to give you all the kisses._

_Lastly, here is a riddle._

_What belongs to you, but others use more than you?_

_All the best,  
Valeria_

Boromir lowered the letter and looked to Faramir. “Well? What is the answer for the riddle?”

Faramir let out a laugh. “That is your first question out of all you have read?”

He reread the riddle several times with a furrowed brow. “I know not what it is.”

Leaning beside the window, Faramir replied, “I believe it is _a name_. I await to hear if it is the correct response.”

“…Intriguing.” Boromir paced a few steps. “And who is Solana? Catalina? This Sunflower? How does she have such information regarding the sky? Is she truly a witch? Why does she ask about your dreams? And myself?”

“Pace yourself, brother,” Faramir said as he chuckled. “Solana and Catalina are Lady Valeria’s daughters. She has another son, Frerin, who is third in line for the throne of Erebor. Sunflower is her mount.” Faramir then paused like he was not sure if he should expound. “And Lady Valeria’s intelligence can be mistaken for dark sorcery by lesser minds, but she simply possesses a great amount of knowledge that outpaces our own by leagues. That is how many are in the North.”

Faramir took a breath to curb his growing eagerness. “As for the dreams…you know how they can be. Lady Valeria assists in deciphering their meaning on occasion when Gandalf cannot. She is wise in that sense as well.”

With a fond smirk, Boromir said, “You are keen to visit her and her kingdom.”

“It would be a great honor. But Father has always rejected my inquires to journey there. He is distrustful, and to send the Steward’s son into foreign hands poses a great risk to Gondor…according to him. Still, I dream I may one day travel to see the Lonely Mountain, the Long Lake, the Misty Mountains and even Rivendell. Lady Valeria and Gandalf said that when the Long Lake is calm, you can take a boat into the ruins of Laketown and see glittering red scales and coins from the corpse of the dragon that plagued the land some years ago. Bard the Bowman slew the dragon after Thorin Oakenshield, king of Erebor, awoke him in the Lonely Mountain—”

“Yes, I know the tales,” Boromir said good-naturedly. “You have told me them more than once.”

“Bah, you enjoy them as much as I. Nevertheless, most letters we have exchanged are like the one you read. Lady Valeria is not some mystical, power-hungry witch like Father believes her to be. She is a mother and a wife who serves her kingdom with great love, and she takes the time to write to the second-born Steward’s son even when she does not have to.”

“People can be kind and be many other things, Faramir.”

“If your doubts cannot be dissuaded, simply read reports on the affairs of Middle-earth in the archives. Father cannot burn all the information he dislikes, no matter how much he wishes it.”

“Perhaps I shall.” Boromir paused, then followed with, “The lady Spoke of Minas Ithil as though she remembered when it fell. How old is she?”

“I do not know. Old enough to be the age our mother would have been. Older, maybe.”

“And she is human?”

“Yes. Although, she…” Faramir tilted his head to ponder his next words. “I think you should read the archived reports. Then you may come to me with questions, or better yet, send her a letter yourself.”

“And exhaust the ravens even more? No, I think I will simply continue to exhaust you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll have slow updates for the foreseeable future, but thank you for all your support so far!


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